Of Grubby Mirrors and Bathroom Sinks
by AngelisIgniRelucent
Summary: To Blaine: 'What class are you in' To Kurt: 'French – what's up' To Blaine: 'Opened my NYADA letter' To Kurt: 'Where are you' To Blaine: 'Girls' bathrooms – come quick'


***Le me, jumping on the bandwagon of Blaine comforting Kurt after the NYADA letter***

_To Blaine:  
_What class are you in?

_To Kurt:  
_French – what's up?

_To Blaine:  
_Opened my NYADA letter

_To Kurt:  
_Where are you?

_To Blaine:  
_Girls' bathrooms – come quick

"Excusez moi, est-ce que je peux aller au toilettes s'il vous plait?"  
"Oui, bien sûr, Monsieur Anderson."

You try to keep your footsteps even as you walk out of the classroom, but as soon as you think you're out of earshot, you speed up to a steady jog, desperately trying not to jump to any conclusions in your mind. His texts hadn't given anything away at all, but you genuinely _can't _imagine any scenario in which Carmen Tibideaux _wouldn't _accept Kurt on the basis of his audition.

The smile at the memory of _those gold pants _and _those high kicks _is still on your face when you burst through the door, flushed and breathless from your run. You look up, expecting to see Kurt grinning, eyes shining with prospects and excitement and _oh my god, New York_ … and you freeze in your tracks. Because there he is, perched on the edge of the sink with absolutely no regard for the effect that could have on his immaculate white jeans, messenger bag slung carelessly on the floor without a second thought. You're by his side in an instant, coaxing his face out of his hands and meeting his watery gaze with your own. You hope he can see the love and the comfort and the reassurance in your eyes, because the sight of him so _devastated _has rendered you speechless.

You press a soft kiss to his forehead, pulling him down off the sink and into your arms. You barely even notice the piece of paper that flutters to the floor as you do so until he's jerking forwards to catch it. He stares for a moment at where his hands have creased the formerly pristine sheet, before bursting into another round of hiccupping sobs that have you clutching at his back, trying to hold him impossibly closer to you.

"They don't … want me," he manages to choke out. "I'm not … good enough."  
"Hey now, none of that," you croon, rubbing reassuring circles into his back. "You're perfect. You're perfect."  
"But you _have _to say that! And I'm clearly _not _because they don't _want me, _and … and …" he cuts himself off, burying his face in your neck again.  
"And what, baby? What is it? There's something else … babe, please talk to me?"

He shakes his head against your shoulder until you press your fingers to his chin, lifting it until he has to meet your eyed. "Tell me babe."  
"It's just … they …" and you feel your heart twist with his face. "Rachel got in."  
"Oh."  
"And I'm happy for her, I _am, _it's just … I …"  
"It's okay, love – let it out."  
"It's not _fair_! My _whole _high school career has been one big competition with her! And when she got all the solos I used to console myself with dreams of _New York_," and the way he spits the words, so bitterly, breaks your heart a little bit. "But then we were _friends_, and it became our dream to do it _together. _It was like we drew, we crossed the finish line at the same time, _but she still managed to beat me_! How is that fair? She gets the solos, the leads in musicals, _Finn_, she even got _you _for a little while, and now she's got NYADA too! And what do _I _have? Stuck in Ohio with no prospects and-"  
"You've got me," you say in a small voice, cringing at how unsure you sound.  
"Oh, babe, of course I do! I didn't mean – I just – you know that's not what I meant –"  
"I know, I know – it's fine. But listen to me, baby. You've got me, you've got your wonderful father, and we'd do _absolutely anything _for you. You've got Carole and Finn, who are just as much a part of your family and who love you. You've got _all those _fashion internship application letters ready to post off. You've still got New York, baby – nothing can stop you. We're going to skip school right now, we're going to stop off at the garage and tell your dad, and then we're going to go post those letters. And _then _we'll snuggle on your couch with some good movies … and _then_, _maybe_, if your dad isn't home yet, I'm going to show you just how perfect you are …" and you smile as he lets out a watery chuckle at your devilish eyebrow waggle, half-heartedly smacking your arm.

"Are you trying to cheer me up with the promise of sex, Mr Anderson?"  
"It depends – is it _working_, Mr Hummel?" you respond with a cheeky grin.  
"Maybe," he mutters begrudgingly, before pulling back from your embrace and pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Thank you," he whispers, and you can't help but notice how tragically beautiful he looks, with tear tracks on his pale cheeks, emphasised by a rosy blush, a small smile tugging at his lips.  
Anytime, beautiful," you whisper back, enjoying how his blush spreads right down to his neck at the compliment. You lean forwards, fully intending to latch onto his throat with your teeth, marking the gorgeously smooth expanse of skin, but his sudden gasp brings you jerking back up. It only takes you a moment to realise the reason for it, and you can't hold back the bubble of laughter that forces its way out of your mouth.

"Blaine. I really don't see why you're laughing," he says, voice dangerously controlled, eyes still locked on his dishevelled reflection in the grubby mirror.  
"I-I'm not … laughing … at all," you wheeze out between giggles.  
"Blaine, I need you to go get me my big can of hairspray and my moisturiser and my concealer from my locker – I've only got tiny emergency repair bottles in here, and they just won't do!" and he's rummaging in his satchel now, somehow managing to do so without tearing his horrified gaze from the mirror, as if his appearance might deteriorate further should he stop looking.

"You can doll yourself up when we get home, babe," you say, trying to keep the amused grin off your face.  
"I am _not _walking down the corridor looking like _this_!" he almost-shrieks.  
"Hey, but it's the perfect excuse! I'll take you to the nurse, and she'll write us a note excusing us from class so I can take you home, because _you look terribly ill, dear,_" and you slip into a dorky impression of the ancient school nurse. Kurt looks at you dubiously for a moment, before cautiously nodding his head.  
"Fine. But if anyone other than the nurse sees me, so help me I will burn your bowties, and I will put your hair gel on the top shelf, and -"  
"Okay, okay, I get the picture! If we hurry, everyone will still be in class – come on!"

You hold the door open for him, gesturing for him to go first with an exaggerated bow. He snorts at your goofiness, too busy checking that the corridor is empty to notice you picking a slightly crumpled sheet of paper off the damp floor, folding it carefully, and slipping it into your pocket.

**Wow, this is much longer than I was intending it to be … anyway, thoughts?  
xx**


End file.
